


Justification

by implicit_despair



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Spoilers, POV Second Person, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/implicit_despair/pseuds/implicit_despair
Summary: It's been years after the island, and Peko couldn't be doing worse. She tells herself there’s a reason behind everything, even if it may be a lie.





	Justification

You look at your watch, 20 minutes passed since you were supposed to meet. You sigh in frustration and the makeup you spent hours applying starts to melt away like your sanity. Your foot starts to tap impatiently by itself as multiple passer-byers stare at you-possibly in disgust? Or pity? You can’t tell. The dress you’re wearing is simple, a short, long-sleeved black dress. Despite it being October, being outside in long sleeves is not a good option.

After waiting a bit more, you decide to walk home. Disappointment is it? Is that what the feeling is?

I mean, what were you expecting? For him to show? Everyone’s too good for you and you know that;  you’re just a mere tool. The only person who’ll actually talk to you is your young master who’s off screwing girl number forty-seven this week. You tell yourself it’s just business, what he’s doing. I mean, you tried justifying it that way, but the young master doesn’t need to fuck his way to the top. He’s already at the top. And you should know that better than anyone.

You finally arrive at your house, it’s small but quaint. You and young master decided to move in together, but you have different floors. He’s on the top, and you’re on the bottom. Each floor is like it’s own house. He could stay there his whole life if he really wanted to. You’re not allowed up there except when he calls you. And when he does, it’s usually to clean all the empty bottles and empty condom packages scattered throughout the floor while he lies in bed smoking cigarette after cigarette.

It’s been a couple of years since Jabberwock island and your feelings for each other were revealed. Your relationship didn’t skyrocket or anything, after you finally moved off the island it became awkward to see him walk past you. Sonia and the other have tried setting you on blind dates, but just like today, they never show up. You think it’s because they can sense your menacing aura from their houses and decide on the spot to stay home without contacting you.

Those events on the island may have scarred both of you for life, but it’s the one last thing connecting both of you together.

Young master sits on the sofa in the front room of your floor. You’re surprised he’s even there. You stare for awhile till he returns the favour.

“Peko, please sit.” He sounds almost sincere, it reminds you of that time on the island, right before your execution. You sit down as far as you can from him. It almost becomes sacred to even be near him, like a god you fear his next move. You even fear it’s going to be like how it was on the island. You take a deep breath.

“What is it, young master?” He doesn’t flinch when you say that, on the island, he would be pissed. Shouting and all, he never wanted you to see him like that but why now? Why is he okay with it now? You focus on him, well, you try to but your mind continues to shift from reality to Jabberwock island and how he tried to save you. _Tried_ , being the keyword. Masters aren’t meant to save mere tools like you, you know you should feel thankful. But at the end, it was a simulation. You questioned once if his feelings were fake along with the game, but he shushed you with a slap and apologized if he led you on. You took it as a yes.

In the present, he hangs his head low, low enough you can see an aerial view of his head. His hair is still blonde, but the shaved swirls on the sides of his head have now been filled with hair. You can tell he hasn’t had a haircut in a while by the way it shags on his forehead.

“I-I-” he hesitates. You remember that too, you told him not to hesitate but in the end, he still did. Even now. Young master never listens to you yet you cling to his every word like a fucking dog. But you are not even a dog, no, you’re a tool.

“Peko, I-I-” he doesn’t finish again. You wonder if he’ll ever but by the time you’re about to finish that question his lips are on your’s and now you wonder how he moved that far that fast in that amount of time.

He pulls back and you stay still, afraid of his next move. You lock eyes with him, you can’t tell if the feeling was genuine or if he’s drunk, or perhaps you’re just a rebound. You don’t want to be a rebound, so you stand up in silence. Now you have your head low as you walk into your room. You expect him to follow but he doesn’t. It doesn’t make you sad. It only confirms that he never cared for you, and you’re still a tool till your body cannot move.

You close your room door, you don’t bother to change into pajamas or to do anything, so you lie down in your bed. Lipstick smudged and mascara running down your cheeks. Your eyes flutter closed, and for one reason or another, you’re sorry. Then you fall into a deep sleep, the same way you fell for him. It was hard.

You wake up the next morning recollecting your thoughts about last night when you hear frustration coming from the floor above you. You question yourself whether hearing emotions is possible, but you eventually will yourself out of that thought spiral and leap out of bed.

Your breakfast consists of one thing, a slice of bread which you devour. You contemplate grabbing another slice but shake the thought from your mind at risk of altering with your daily routine.

It’s a Saturday, a day young master usually calls you to clean his room. But it is not needed for him to call you, he is sitting again on the sofa. The only thing different is that now he’s the one staring at you, and you’re the one returning the favour. He gestures you to sit down and you do, because what else can you do? You’re just a tool, and as a tool, you must follow his orders.

Then it hits you, how much of being a tool is comparable to the treatment of a dog. You tell yourself that it is an honor, being a tool to a yakuza, and yet somehow your mind remains unconvinced but settles down as you take a seat next to him. Your conversation is like a tennis match, one after another in quick succession.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be-”

“But I do."

“Young master-”

As soon as you call him that he slams his fists onto the coffee table. “I told you, don’t you fucking remember? Those times on the island? Don’t fucking call me that, _ever_ again.”

You nod and swallow as if your life depended on it. He settles back down and leans into you, eyes closed. And you freeze.

You want it, but you know how it’ll end up, so you get up and he glares at you but doesn’t say anything. You quickly rush to your room as you feel the tears building up. Over the years you had practiced keeping your tears from flowing, such as lying down on your back and blinking rapidly. You do each technique you've learned one after another, then all at once, but it still doesn’t work. There’s only one reason you can think of for this.

These tears are real.

 


End file.
